Sincerely, Vintage

Part 1

Tracey

The soft vibrations of her alarm shook Tracey from her sleep. She scooted out of her sleeping bag, standing and raising her arms to the morning sun. Sure, it was cold up here, but from her rooftop hiding place, she could see everything. The streets and buildings rolled out before her, dusty rose-colored smoke billowing up from chimneys and the occasional fire.
She padded down the ladder in her bare feet, then swung through the window and landed in her apartment. "Apartment" was a bit of a stretch; all of the furniture looked threadbare, and she didn't have much in the way of decorations. No rugs or cutesy aesthetics here.
But what Tracey did have was much more beautiful, at least to her. An army of spray paint cans stood guard beneath the beautiful chaos covering the walls. Graffiti had started out as a casual hobby, something to do to push back against the authorities, but once it turned into an emotional outlet, she found she couldn't stop. Ever since she'd found this place, she'd made a project out of transforming each wall. So far, she'd finished the living room and most of the kitchen.
Tracey picked up one of the paint cans and shook it thoughtfully, pacing up and down in front of one of the living room walls. Something about it had been off for a while, itching at her peripheral vision every time she walked past. She squatted down, took a few steps back, tilted her head to try and see it from every angle. Suddenly, her face lit up like a ray of sunshine.
She scooped up a can of paint in each hand, studied the wall for a moment more, then dove in. For a few minutes, the morning silence was broken by the wind of hissing paint and soft footsteps. Tracey almost danced back and forth in front of the wall, her movements graceful and sure, a focused expression on her face. When she'd finished, she took a step back, removed her mask, and smiled.
I fixed it.